A/N: Time for another Sherlolly vignette! I was feeling so sad at the end of S3E2, that I had to do something to lighten the mood. I hope you like it. This one may have another chapter, depending on response. Anyway, here goes...

Molly knew he'd be here. You don't hang out with Sherlock Holmes for long without picking up a few things. She'd watched him slip quietly away from the reception, across the lawn and into a cab like a cat burglar with a sweep of his coat and a trick of smoke and mirrors. He was theatrical, even when he was trying to go unnoticed. Molly knew it would come down to this when she'd watched him standing there, alone and awkward on the dance floor. She wanted to go to him then, but Tom was there. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson. All the people that were standing there with their expectant stares. But the fates finally smiled and just after they threw rice at the newlyweds, Tom got a migraine. The little Sherlock in her head whispered, "His brain was probably just overheating." She sent him home in a cab on the pretense that she was going to stay and help clean up. As soon he was gone, she offered hugs to Greg and Mrs. Hudson, climbed in her car and drove to the one place that would offer Sherlock any comfort: Bart's morgue.

She crept inside, not wanting anyone to see her for fear that they'd assume she was there to work. As she passed by the administrative desk, she pressed a finger to her lips and the orderly nodded, letting her go unnoticed through the double doors that led into the morgue. All was dark and that was good. It meant that there hadn't been any murders or accidental deaths tonight. Of course, it was early yet. Relatively speaking.

"We really have to stop meeting like this." Sherlock's voice startled her. She switched on the tiny gooseneck lamp on her desk and there he was, lying on a gurney, his fingertips steepled under his chin. His overcoat, morning jacket and tie were tossed carelessly to the floor. "What are you doing here, Molly?"

"Came to see you," she replied simply, laying her own coat aside.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"I made a deduction." She ambled around the table and stood by where he lay. "Why are you laying on a gurney?"

"The drawers were all full."

"Oh I see."

He sat up and she could see that he was holding something. A large bottle of champagne from the wedding. "Fancy a drink, Molly?"

"Uhm… we really shouldn't have alcohol in here, Sherlock."

"Oh come on, Dr. Hooper. Live a little." He turned up the bottle and drank deeply. Obviously this had been going on for a while.

"Are you drunk?" she asked in disbelief.

He looked puzzled by her question and mulled it over for a while. "Am I? Hmm… I don't know." He patted the gurney beside him. "Come on, Dr. Hooper. Have a drink with me." He offered the bottle once more and with a shrug, Molly took it.

"Uggh… it's hot!" she exclaimed after a sip.

"I know. But if you drink it fast, then it kind of burns off the top layer of tastebuds." He took another draw from the bottle and set it down. "What'd you think of my speech, Lolly?" he slurred. "I mean… Mmmolly."

She nodded and patted his hand affectionately. "You did an amazing job, Sherlock."

"I know," he replied with a chuckle. "Except for that part with the murder, it was a lovely wedding." He passed the bottle back to her. "You never did say why you were here. At the morgue, I mean. Not… like… why are you here in the world."

"Well…I thought you might… you know, need someone. To talk to or keep you company." She took the bottle and had another long swallow, her eye twitching from the flavor. "Thought you might be feeling, I dunno…lonely?"

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Defective… de-TEC-tive. To be lonely would imply that you need companionship. I do not need companionship. Alone is what…" His voice trailed off and he looked around the room suspiciously. "Wait a minute! You had a date, Molly Hooper. Where is young Thomas? Did you leave him in the hall with some breadcrumbs to find his way here?" Sherlock burst into laughter and took the bottle from her again. "I'm sorry, Molly… he's…"

"An idiot." He nodded as he sucked down more champagne. "You know, I never noticed until you came back. Thanks for that." She jerked the bottle from his hands, looking down and realizing that it was nearly empty. As she tipped the bottle back to drain the last of the champagne, she realized her head was swimming. Funny, champagne always went to her head and she'd had her fair share at the wedding.

"You're welcome."

"How much have you had, Sherlock?" He gestured casually to the lab table where one bottle had already been discarded. "You drank that bottle by yourself?"

"I offered some to the cabbie, but he respectfully declined. All for the best, I suppose. He was driving at the time." He sighed and lay down on the gurney again, resting his head on the cold steel headrest. "Come on, Molly. Lie down with me. Pretend to be dead."

"Uhm…"

"Come oooonnn…there's plenty of room." He scooted over a little, tossing the headrest aside. Molly looked around but finally shrugged and lay down beside him. "See… isn't that blissful? Quiet? Calm?" They lay there for a few minutes, neither speaking, just staring up at the ceiling. That is until she heard a soft snore.

"Sherlock?" She elbowed him.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. "So why are you here again, Lolly?"

"I dunno… you just seemed sad. I thought maybe I could help."

"And how does Tod—"

"Tom."

"Whatever. How does he feel about your running off to help me? I can tell he hates me already. You can see it. He always has this weird look on his face when I speak. I suppose it's only fair. I look ill whenever he speaks…so do you, incidentally."

"He went home with a migraine. Just after you left. He doesn't know I'm here."

"I thought you were going to break up with him."

Molly sighed. "I keep trying. But there's always interruptions and… I just really don't know what to say to him."

"Hmm…" Sherlock thought for a moment, steepling his fingertips over his face. "Tom. You're an idiot. Too boring for even someone as kind and forgiving as me to put up with. Off you go." He raised slightly and looked at Molly, his eyes sleepy with drunkenness. "How was that?"

"Terrible, Sherlock. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Oh. Well then I'm out of ideas." He flopped back down on the gurney and Molly winced, hearing his skull bounce off the steel. "Unless of course you'd like me to kill him for you. During the wedding, I actually worked out the perfect way…"

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry…well, on second thought, not really." He giggled to himself again. "Oh wait… are you keeping him around for sex?"

Molly gasped and felt herself turning red all over. Something about the way the word 'sex' dripped from the dip in those pouty lips of his just made her insides melt into a warm and viscous pool in the pit of her stomach. "That's… not appropriate for you to ask about."

Sherlock laughed loudly and immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. "Ssshh… we're in the morgue," he hissed. "We can't giggle."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence again. At least, Molly was uncomfortable. Sherlock seemed to be having the time of his life, audibly counting the tiles in the ceiling. "I was lying, you know."

"Lying where?"

"A while back. When I said, you know… about me and Tom… having lots of sex. I was lying."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm Slurlock Holmes. I know everything."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"It was a terrifying thought and I was trying to block it out."

"The truth is, we weren't. Aren't. I mean, we tried… but…" She sighed again, not knowing how much of this she should be saying. After all, it was Sherlock. Of course, judging by the cloudy look in his eyes and the fact that he kept falling asleep, he probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning. "We tried but it was a disaster."

"How so?"

"Well… I guess… maybe my heart just wasn't in it."

Sherlock sat up, his nose crinkled in that disgustedly confused fashion. "It's true I'm no expert, Mols, but I didn't think your heart was the most important organ in that situation."

"Shut up…," Molly groaned. "It all started last summer…"

OoOoOo

Everything was perfect. It had to be. Tonight was the night that Molly Hooper was finally going to shake off the shadow of Sherlock Holmes and get on with her life. She had everything planned, down to ground zero: the bed. Tom would come round at seven. Molly had made them a deliciously rich dinner with wine. Soft music, a fire in the hearth. She had even gone so far as to buy a new, sexy black cocktail dress to wear for the occasion. Tom would take one look at her and insist that they retire to the bedroom. Molly smirked. She'd thought of everything. The bed was made with new sheets and a velvet duvet a friend had given her ages ago. Another bottle of wine was chilling in a bucket on the nightstand and fresh roses adorned every available surface. She'd even banished Tobias the tabby to the attic for the night. Yes, after tonight, Sherlock Holmes would be a distant memory from an unhappy past. Let's ignore the fact that Tom looked just enough like him in the dark that she could pretend. Of course he wasn't clever or quick. In fact, every time he opened his mouth, Molly found herself rolling her eyes or bracing for some ridiculous opinion. But in the darkness of the pub or the shadows of the dance floor, she could pretend.

When Tom arrived, he knew something must be up. The wine, the spicy sweet scent of the Crème Brulee that hung in the air, the way Molly had worn her hair down so that it fell in luscious Clairol waves to her shoulders. Every factor was conspiring to make a romantic evening that neither would forget. They ate with barely restrained brevity. Wine, starter, dinner, dessert—all of them just roadblocks to the main event. When Molly stood up, Tom couldn't contain himself anymore and swept her into his arms. They stumbled past the dining room chairs, over the cat toy that had escaped from the basket by the door and into Molly's bedroom. He didn't ask any questions as she quickly shut out the lights. She pushed him down on the bed, letting go of her mousey persona with the cover of darkness. Why be mousey? She was Molly Hooper: young, single Londoner. Accomplished doctor and tonight- sex goddess. Take that, Sherlock Holmes. Her fingernails made quick work of Tom's ill fitting button-up. His pale, freckled chest with the inexplicable hair patterns was hidden in the shadows, but her fingers could feel the gentle slope of bone beneath his skin. The bumps of his ribs. The… ok, so he was a shade thin. She climbed atop him, the hem of her sassy little cocktail dress riding up on her thighs. She hoped he could see the thin lace strap of her garter belt. He made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as his fingertips found the smooth flesh of her thigh. She bent closer, kissing his mouth with a fervor she had only read about in tawdry romance novels. Since he wasn't going to, she grabbed his shoulders, rolling his body on top of hers. He chuckled softly and finally began to play along. His hands were everywhere. Clumsily he pawed at her chest, squeezing at each breast and biting at her nipples through the thin silk of her little black dress.

"Oh Molly… I've been waiting… so long for this…"

"Me too, darling," she sighed, her fingers pulling and fumbling with the button on his trousers. "Please… hurry."

He obeyed her command, sliding his palm slowly over her body. Down her side to her bare thigh and lower. Cautiously he let his fingertips wander along the inside until he found the lacy underwear that covered her moist, sticky sex. Molly gasped as he found his mark and eagerly groped for his own…

"Meat dagger," Sherlock interrupted with an intoxicated giggle that bubbled out unexpectedly.

"Shut up."

Their legs entwined, pressing their bodies against one another. She could feel him, his hardened manhood pushing insistently at her center. She moaned softly, letting her thigh fall to the side to receive him. And at the moment of entry, as his cock slid into the warm heat of her, Molly sighed against his ear. "Oh Sher…"

OoOoOo

"I have never been so humiliated in my life," Molly finished, wishing there were some champagne left. "I said the wrong name. I actually said the wrong name. I mean, I thought that only happened on telly."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply went into his vest, producing a flask and unscrewing the top. "Here. I nicked this from John earlier. After that story he'd want you to have it." Molly took a swig from the flask and nearly choked. She sat up, coughing and flailing as the liquid burned her throat.

"My God… what is that?"

"Good isn't it?" he asked, taking his own swig. "Mmm… did you really say my name instead of Ted's?"

"Tom's."

"Whatever. Did you?"

"Yes." She shook her head, knowing that the only reason she was confessing was because he wouldn't remember tomorrow. "He got up and left immediately. Who can blame him? I suppose I would too. It took me three weeks to get him to go out with me again! Of course, I haven't tried to seduce him again, that's for sure."

"Good," Sherlock replied. "Very good, then."

"No, it isn't. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a meaningful relationship with my showerhead, Sherlock." She crossed her arms over her chest, still lying flat and looking up at the ceiling. "What about you? No embarrassing sex stories?"

"No."

"None?"

"I'm the virgin, remember," Sherlock said, taking another swallow from the flask.

"I don't believe that," Molly said, jerking the flask from him. "Come on… I told mine."

Sherlock was silent. For a moment Molly thought he might have fallen asleep again, but then he chuckled softly. "Ok… well… I might have one. Picture it… "

OoOoOo

Budapest. A year ago. Sherlock received the text while he was having a drink at a dingy little borozo. "You're not dead. Let's have dinner." One glance across the street and he saw her there at a café. Looking beautifully alive… and blonde for some reason. So the question was, continue his surveillance of the assassin with the body odor and the limp or catching up with an old friend. Sherlock rose, buttoning his jacket and crossing the street. After all, a guy with body odor and a limp should be easy to find.

"So first I hear you're dead and then I hear you aren't. Can't you make up your mind, Mr. Holmes?" Irene Adler. The Woman. The distraction that occasionally turns up in his head wreaking havoc. For a moment he wondered if she was a hallucination. It wouldn't be uncommon for someone like him to have a complete mental breakdown. Of course when she rose from the table, rushing toward him and embracing him tightly before he could protest, he was pretty certain that she was real. To his surprise, he found himself hugging her back, enjoying the feel of her lithe frame against him. Her cheek brushed against his and she whispered in his ear. "Let's go someplace more… private."

It was electric. Knocking over tables and chairs, a little old lady and a totally innocent waiter, they made their way toward the back of the café where they were sure to find a toilet where they might properly express their joy at seeing one another after all this time. "Oh Sherlock… I'm so glad you're not dead," she purred, tugging at those luscious curls that she had been missing between her fingertips. "I was so worried." Their mouths crushed against one another as they fumbled with the doorknob. As they pushed their way in, an unsuspecting woman with an enormous diaper bag over her shoulder found herself and her baby jerked through the doorway and banished into the restaurant. She started to protest, but Irene slammed the door in her face. Turning around, she backed up against the door, the cool wood soothing her overheated skin. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this," she sighed. "I can hardly believe you're real."

"Believe it. Sherlock lives, baby."

"Wait a minute," Molly interrupted. "You seriously did not say that."

Sherlock laughed and emptied the flask, tossing it to the ground carelessly. "No. I didn't. I'm not even sure any of this actually happened."

"Did you make all of this up?" Molly asked, sitting up on her elbows and looking down at him.

"Mmmm….mayyybe."

Irene narrowed her eyes, reaching behind to pull her hair down. It fell carelessly around her shoulders as she shook it out. Sherlock's mouth watered, realizing that this time he'd never be able to resist her. Besides, if you couldn't have casual sex when you were dead, when could you have it? She came toward him, slowly unbuttoning her blouse until her pearlescent flesh was revealed, bit by delicious bit. "Death agrees with you, Mr. Holmes. Cheekbones in sparkling form…" She reached out, sliding her fingertips along his jawline, chin and across that generous lower lip.

And then she punched him square in the jaw. "You son of a bitch! I thought you were dead! I actually cried for you! I grieved!" Before he could reply, she launched herself at him, beating him about the head and neck.

OoOoOo

Molly nearly fell off the gurney laughing. "You got your arse handed to you by a girl!"

"She caught me off guard," Sherlock grumbled. "At least I knew her name."

After a while, their laughter faded and they lay there in silence once more. Sherlock sighed and laid his hand on top of Molly's. "Thank you, Lolly."

"For what?"

"For keeping me company." He sat up and she followed suit. As he slid down from the gurney he was unsteady on his feet and leaned on the table for support. "We better go." He began pulling his jacket on, his intoxication making it difficult to find the arm holes. "I know this thing had two arms when I came in."

Molly giggled and helped him get his arms into the coat. "There you are, you big baby."

He smiled warmly and cupped her face in his hands. Leaning in, he gave her a sloppy kiss on the mouth. "Do you want to go home with me, Molly Hooper?"

"What?!"